


Merry's Maying

by Lurea



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Complete, F/M, First Time, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1405, young Merry and Frodo go to the May Eve bonfire in Buckland, and Merry learns something new.</p>
<p>Originally written for the Hobbit Smut First Line Challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry's Maying

The night was young, the skies were clear, the soft summer wind whispered in Merry's ear of a hobbit lass's soft flesh, but the six pork buns that Merry had consumed earlier had other plans for his evening.

Frodo looked sympathetic. "Merry, to overeat on this of all nights!"

"What of it? I've attended the May'eve bonfire loads of times."

"But this year, you are old enough to-"

"To what?" Merry asked. To dance? He had been dancing for years. And he had spent the night outside last year, and woken up chilled, with dew in his hair. Frodo certainly was keen to sleep outdoors tonight. Merry stretched back in his chair and groaned at the pressure in his gut.

Frodo did not immediately reply, but finished buttoning up his shirt and made a small smothered sound, halfway between a laugh and a snort. "Then you have only yourself to blame."

Merry hated it when Frodo was right. He started to get up and winced as the motion contracted his midsection. Now that he thought about it, there was no need to change into his new shirt. This shirt was fine. "Don't rub salt in my wounds, Frodo.”

Frodo fastened his braces and ran a hand over them so they would lie smoothly across his shoulders. "I warned you those would sit heavy on the stomach."

"Heavy? Heavy?" Merry cried. "It's as if my stomach is filled with stones, huge, cumbersome, bloated..." His stomach rumbled alarmingly.

"Merry, I recall only too well the discomfort evoked by overeating." Frodo smugly admired the effect of the blue braces against his new shirt. "Despite my most sincere sympathy, I doubt I will be able to remain at your side this evening."

Merry frowned at him. Why was he being so particular about his appearance? The strutting popinjay! "I expect no hand-holding from you, Frodo Baggins. Not when the most beauteous lasses in Buckland will be out tonight, just waiting-" He belched loudly and fanned the air with his hand. "What was I saying? Oh, yes, just waiting for me. I shall not disappoint their dear lonely hearts."

Frodo raised his eyebrows as he looked over at Merry. "Someone will be lonely tonight, certainly. I doubt it will be the lasses."

There was a tap at the door, and Saradoc opened it and looked in. "Are you two ready? It is a clear night but cool. You will need your cloak, Merry."

Merry made no movement, still sprawled quite pitiably across the armchair, one arm dangling to the ground. "He overate, uncle," Frodo said.

Saradoc looked surprised. "Overate? On May'eve? What were you thinking, son?"

Merry's voice was muffled against the chair cushions. "That the pork buns were excellent?"

"The ones with onion and mushrooms?"

"Yes." Merry could still taste the delicate spices and flavorful pork on his tongue. He burped. Yes, he could still taste it.

Saradoc smiled ruefully. "You would overeat of onions. Merry, Merry, when will you learn? If you wish, you can make a brief appearance, and then come back to sleep off your over-indulgence."

"But then I shall have no basket for Mother or Great-aunt," Merry protested. Or Mentha or Meli or-

Saradoc raised his eyebrows. "I doubt you would gather many flowers at any stretch, but be persuading the lasses to fill your baskets." His mouth quirked peculiarly on the phrase "fill your baskets." Frodo made a choked sound, and Merry looked at him crossly. What was he laughing about?

Saradoc smoothly continued. "Which I am sure they will still do, if you smile and ask politely." Merry belched again, and Saradoc rolled his eyes. "And stop in the kitchen for some chamomile tea."

He turned away and did not see Merry's grimace. "I hate chamomile tea."

Frodo picked up Merry's cloak and held it out to him. "But it is good for you. Now, what about your waistcoat?"

Merry looked down at himself. His stomach looked no different under the pale green linen of his shirt. It did not look as swollen as if he had swallowed a watermelon. It only felt that way. "Bother that. I cannot bear any snug clothes tonight."

He picked up the willow baskets he had been filling every May Day since he was a stripling. Frodo picked up another basket, their bedrolls and an old coverlet, and they set out for the bonfire.

###

On the edge of Buckland, the floors of the small guesthouse creaked as the hobbits moved about. Laurey heard the wood protesting as someone neared her and her sister's room. It was probably mum, come to inspect her dress. A short rap, and her mother entered. "You look very nice, dear." Her mother put her head to one side and frowned. "But this bodice..."

She took hold of Laurey's neckline and tugged it up an inch. "There, much better. Now, I expect you to keep your sister company."

"Why?" Laurey asked. "She is thirty-three and of age."

"Her betrothal may not be formally contracted yet, Laurey, but still it would be more proper if she didn't participate too-" Her mother paused, searching for the word. "Enthusiastically. And really, Laurey, you are close to thirty. You should begin considering your matches, as well."

She left, and Laurey moved to the window and looked out. Her breath blew a cloud of condensation against the glass. "And what about what I wish?" she whispered. There was no answer to that.

###

By the time the moon rose over the trees, the dancing had mostly stopped, though Merimac still played his lute. The rippling notes counter pointed nicely with the cool breeze and bright stars, the music coming from everywhere and nowhere, from the trees and fields around them, or from the night itself.

With the exception of the chaperones, the tweens and eligible unmarrieds of Buckland were alone around the great bonfire. The elders had dragged the children off to bed, and most of the married couples had slipped away, as well, with significant looks and teasing smiles that were lost on those left behind. The young folk were far too concerned with their own affairs to wonder what their mums and dads might be up to on May'eve. Flowers and greenery were piled to one side of the field, for next morning's May baskets.

Merry lay disconsolately on the coverlet Frodo had wisely brought, sipping from a horn of tea. It had cooled, and he wrinkled his nose at the honey-green taste. Substitute weeds and grass for chamomile, and who would know the difference? _I bet that's what Cook does if she runs short._ Mint sprigs were wrapped in his handkerchief, and he chewed one slowly, trying to drive the taste of onion from his mouth.

Several of the lasses had given him longing looks when the dancing began, but just the thought of being cheek to cheek when a nasty belch escaped was enough to keep him firmly on his back. Frodo had nothing to worry about, and Merry was forced to watch enviously as he danced with most of the girls in Buckland. Now that the moon had risen, couples and small groups were slipping quietly away into the woodlot or adjoining fields to "look for flowers."

Merry felt like beating his fists on the ground in frustration. Why had he not thought before taking that last roll? His stomach rolled uneasily and he amended his wish. Why had he not thought before taking those last three rolls? There was no answer to that, and he pillowed his face on his arm.

_No one has come to speak with me or keep me company. They all just want to run about in the woods. No one cares. Probably everyone has a new sweetheart except for me. Everyone in Buckland has celebrated Lady Day proper except for me._ He sighed. He had kissed lasses before, and it was very pleasant, but he could not see eating his heart out over a lack of it. In just a minute, he would give this up and go inside for a proper rest. In just a minute...

###

When he awoke, the moon had swung nearly all the way across the sky, and the fire had burned down to a soft flicker about a few great logs. He sat up and rubbed his midsection cautiously. He felt fine now, no hint of gas or queasiness. He picked up a wilted sprig of mint and chewed it cautiously. Still no belches or queasiness. It looked like most of the younger folk had returned, bedded down on blankets and patchworks, lasses on one side, lads on the other.

Where was Frodo? He swallowed the mint sprig with a gulp of cold tea and stood up, looking around. Impossible to see which of the lasses were still absent. He picked his way carefully over the sleeping bodies, treading upon Berry's arm, and then almost tripping over Merimas. He managed to slip into the woodlot without attracting the attention of Merimac, the boys' chaperone, who was dozing by the fire.

Once under the shadow of the trees, he was surprised at how quickly his eyes adjusted to the moon-glow. The woods were a study in silver and black, dark tree boles and glistening foliage. He made his way along the fringe between the deeper woods and open fields, wide awake and enchanted with the night.

A wild pear branch scratched his shoulder, and he brushed it away absently, remembering the old saying. _Plum for the glum, and the surly love elder, sharp thorns for the prickly, but pear for the sweet._ He stopped and pulled out his small knife. There! He cut five and cradled the cut wood carefully to not dislodge the blossoms. A short distance away, a hawthorn stood in full bloom. Those would make a fair addition. He walked on, already thinking about whom he would give them to. He was so intent on his flower gathering, that he noticed no one near.

But she noticed. She saw him come creeping through the woods, greenery piled in his arms like the lord of May. A slim, handsome-looking lad, and she wondered why he was out so late, when all the other lads had either given up for the night or cuddled their sweethearts already. He was headed straight for her, looking not at the ground and the fields, but up at the sky, sprinkled with stars. "Who is it?" she called softly, and he started. She felt like a shy woodland creature, hidden away and peering out at some stranger she did not know. "Who's there?"

"It's Meriadoc Brandybuck," he answered, straining his eyes to make out the slim form nearly hidden behind a large rock. The field's plowed edges flowed around it, so that it projected outward like a pinnacle of stone into the rich black earth. He thought he recognized her now, a second or third-cousin connection, visiting for the festivities. "Lark? What are you doing out here alone?"

She straightened away from the rock slowly and toyed with the hood of her cloak. "Gathering flowers, of course."

She sat on a wool blanket, utterly devoid of flowers. He looked at the blanket, and at her, and frowned. Then he looked back at the blanket, studying it carefully. Then at the turned earth of the field around her. It was if he were expecting a heap of flowers to magically appear, in support of her words. She felt a giggle threatening to erupt despite her melancholy, and cleared her throat. "I am a bit behind."

He looked relieved and held out the bundle of branches. "You're welcome to some of these, Lark."

She felt a flicker of irritation that she quickly suppressed. She tossed her hood back and let the moonlight shine on her smiling face. "That's twice, Merry Brandybuck. I should be deeply offended. Is it my sister you wished to see?"

He nearly dropped the flowers in his consternation. "I mean, Laurestine! O, stars, I am sorry." He groped about for something fair to say. "No one in his right mind would mistake you for Lark." _Hmmm...That did not sound as good in speech as it did in my head._ "I mean-"

She held up a hand peremptorily, laughing, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. "I think you had best stop before I do get truly offended."

"My apologies." he said and swallowed hard. Laurey was a pretty lass, although some claimed her sister Larkspur was prettier. Lark was shorter and slighter, and her hair lighter, but Laurey's rounded shape and big dark eyes looked well enough to him.

"No woman wishes to hear a handsome man speak to her of her sister or her friends." She gestured to the blanket, and he sat down promptly.

Handsome? She thought that of him? He leaned back against the rock, feeling a remnant of the day's warmth held deep within. His pulse was pounding so loudly he felt sure she would hear it. "Now you've said that, I shan't be able to think of another thing to say, for fear of mentioning a mutual friend."

The moon slipped coyly out from the clouds, and a soft breeze freshened the air, ruffling the bangs across her forehead and blowing tendrils into her face. "Instead, then tell me what you are doing, out here all alone?"

He pointed to the pear and hawthorn. "What does it look like?"

She chuckled, touching one of the silky blooms. "Don't tell me you actually are collecting flowers, and not kisses?"

At once, all the secretive looks and smiles were perfectly clear to Merry, and he was staggered with his ignorance. How could he have been so dim? And what to say now, so that Laurey would not think him an utter fool? He snapped his fingers, putting on a great show of annoyance. "I knew I'd forgotten something. How absurd of me!"

"You're the only lad that's forgotten. And now the lasses have gone off-"

"To sleep?" he interrupted.

She dimpled up at him. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps they dream of sweethearts. Or don't sleep at all."

"Not you."

"No, not me." She looked up at the moon, and reached out a hand as if she could touch it. "The night is so pretty, I wanted to be out in it, feel it on my skin and in my nose, and dancing through my hair. Summer is so beautiful and it slips away so quickly."

He looked at her in surprise. "Why, you talk like an old gammer, Laurey!" He bent to peer quizzically into her face. "Is that truly you in there?"

"Truly Laurestine, dreaming of summer. Why shouldn't I dream? How many more of them like this will there be?"

He leaned back, staring off over the fair green fields, his beautiful Buckland, where he would be Master someday. It was just like his life stretching before him, a golden march of years, and joy and peace in them all. "Many summers, and what a wondrous thing it is."

"For a lad, maybe." She hesitated, and spoke diffidently. "Lark's marriage has been arranged."

"Larkspur--to whom?" He had not heard anything of it, but then it was not likely that he would. It was the ladies of Brandy Hall who cooed and muttered endlessly over marriages and matches.

"Cuivobras, one of the North-Tooks." He noted how her fists clenched in her lap. "It's a good match. When my time comes, may I make as good. But- but Long Cleeve seems so far away. Have you been there? What is it like?"

He had visited Long Cleeve, but it had been long ago, and he had only a boy's impressions of kitchens and playmates. He searched his mind for something more to offer her. "Green like the Marish. The hills are steeper and rougher, not so gentle and rolling, and it gets cooler there. It snows every single year, I think. But it's still the Shire, and they are hobbits of the Shire, a little different but not much."

She pulled a blossom off his hawthorn branch and brought it to her nose. "And lads and lasses are collecting flowers for May Day baskets there, tonight, as well." She looked up at him and the moon shone deep in her eyes. "And kisses. Have you gathered any kisses tonight?"

It was hard to speak lightly over the fear and excitement clogging his throat. Yet he managed what he hoped was a suitably romantic, and dramatic response. "I am bereft and woebegone, and quite utterly kiss-less."

She laughed, and leaned closer. "You speak so glibly, Merry, I could almost believe it."

He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. "Believe it." The fragrance of her skin touched things deep inside him.

May'eve and Laurey's closeness gave him the daring to lean forward and touch his lips to hers. She tilted her head to the side, closing her eyes. Her lips were amazingly soft and her hand crept up around his neck. She rubbed her lips along his like a cat, with a tiny contented murmur.

The friction of her lips along his was tenting his pants, making him glad of his loose linen shirt. Could he touch her? Did he dare? He raised one hand and realized grit from the rock was caked along the palm. He rubbed it vigorously against his shirt, and then realized in confusion that he had stopped moving his lips. _Keep kissing, keep kissing!_ He settled his lips more firmly against hers, and wrapped his free arm around her.

She leaned closer and he felt the softness of her breasts against his chest. The sensation made him dizzy. Her lips parted under his, and she nibbled gently at his lower lip, pulling softly at the flesh, then her tongue shockingly darted into his mouth, tracing along his teeth.

There was no air. He could not get enough air. His breathing was harsh and loud enough to embarrass him. Slowly, deeply, he thought in confusion, and then her lips were gone.

He pulled back to look at her. She was smiling, and she licked her lips. "Chamomile, mint, and honey, how tasty."

He could only gape stupidly at her a moment before recovering. "My tea," he said, then immediately groaned inside. That was a ridiculous thing to say!

But she only smiled again, picking up a small flask and drinking from it. "Your turn," she said and kissed him.

Her mouth was rich and fruity, sweet and intoxicating. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, and whispered, "Wine," back to her without taking his mouth from hers.

"You're quick," she said, and pulled him closer, pressing the lean length of his body against hers. Then she turned her head away for a moment to catch her breath. He was a few years younger than she, but what a handsome lad! Skin like smooth gold, bright eyes and a tender mouth. _I should not.... No, I should. Why not? Why should lads get to have all the fun?_

She turned her face up to his. He needed little encouragement. His mouth drifted from hers, nibbling the curve of her jaw and lower to her neck. She took a small breath and one hand dove into his hair, twisting and twining among the curly strands. Then she let herself slide sideways, arms still wrapped around him. He braced one forearm on the rough wool of the blanket, taking her weight to ease their interlocked bodies down slowly.

Merry could hardly believe this was happening, that it was not some dream from which he would awaken, spent against damp sheets. He kissed her again, and the sensation was much sharper and richer lying down, with the feel of her breasts on his chest and her hips against his. He was hard and swollen, his cock seeming to strain against the softness of her flesh. Far away, a tiny corner of his mind writhed with embarrassment but that voice was faint compared to the overwhelming symphony of pleasure. At this point, he didn't care if she could feel him against her leg. He didn't care if anyone walked up and saw them. He didn't care about anything except kissing her and feeling as much of her as he could.

She did not seem to mind his groin pressing into hers. Far from protesting, she sighed and gave an interesting little wiggle of her hips that pushed his cock between her legs and up. Merry thought he would lose it then, come all over her and himself. Steady. Uh... Foot races. I wonder who won today. Mac?

Laurey slid her hands up under his shirt to his chest. Her hands were deliciously cool and smooth. _I did not wear my jacket or waistcoat. Thank you, six pork pies._ One of those cool hands caressed his nipple, making him grunt in reaction. Almost of their own volition, his hands wandered up to her waist, and then to her ribcage. She arched her back, nearly shoving her breast into his hand.

She could feel the tension in his arms and chest, the muscles throbbing under his wonderfully warm tan skin. His mouth left hers and traveled down her neck, to the base where the pulse throbbed frantically. His hands were was exquisitely gentle, almost shy, making her want to scream to him, more! Touch me harder! Firmer! She barely restrained herself. Her skirt hitched up, tangling around hers and Merry's legs.

Merry reveled in the knowledge that he was the reason her heart beat faster; he was the reason her breathing had quickened. He let his lips dance lower on her skin, across the pearly swell of her bosom, and darted his tongue down her cleavage. She gasped, and pushed her hips fiercely against his. The ribbons of her bodice were literally beneath his nose, tied in a gay bow. He pulled one and the tight lacing loosened dramatically. He inched it down until the rosy nipple was revealed and ran his tongue over the hard nubbin until she moaned. One of her legs came up around him, and he felt bare skin with a shock, and realized that her skirts had ridden up to her hips.

He wanted to bury himself in her softness, yearned for it. _This is why the older lads talk about lasses. This is how it feels._ Hardly daring to breathe, he pushed his hand up her thigh, until his fingers met warm moisture. He stroked experimentally, and her legs jerked. Again, and she tilted her hips against him. Was she trembling? Would she stop him? He felt like he was about to burst out of his breeches, and he cupped his hand over her, moving his palm in slow circles, keeping that small bit of distance between them to salvage his control.

His hand was incredibly hot, and she thought she had never felt anything as delicious as that warmth and pressure right there. It brought a twisting, curling pressure to her insides, drove her hips shamelessly against him, burying her face in his shoulder, and biting her lips to keep from crying out her pleasure to the night.

She reached downward, grasping him through his loose breeches. His cock was hard and heavy, quivering under her touch. She pulled impatiently at the top button of his breeches, until it released. His mint-scented breath blew against her cheek. His fingers touched her there and there...sliding inside her slick-wet opening. She could not bear it. The twisting feeling tightened abruptly, then something gave, spiraled into tremors that started where he touched and spread outward through her whole body, leaving nothing but bliss behind. He quieted, his slender body tense above hers.

_Something_ happened. Laurey was relaxed, where she had been a quivering mass of tension before. _Is that it, then?_ He struggled to suppress a sigh of disappointment. He was so hard that it almost hurt and was very uncomfortable.

She sighed. "Oh, Merry." Then she took a firmer hold of him and giggled. "Or should I say, poor Merry."

He didn't know what to say for there was no denying his unsatisfied desire. He fell back on flattery. "You are so beautiful, it doesn't matter," he murmured into her neck.

She giggled again. "Thank you, but it does." Then her hand tightened around him. His fingers dug into the blanket involuntarily. She rose up on one elbow, still keeping tight hold of him, and pushed him down on his side.

He half-fell, feeling miserably awkward and gawky. Should he stay on his elbows or lie down flat on his back? She resolved the matter with an imperious push to his midsection. _Ooof._

He raised his head a little to see what she was doing and his groin tightened painfully. _Ow._ He put his head back down and looked up at the stars. What was she doing? Was she going to ...stroke him? The thought made his blood pound. He was going to come right now, just with her touching him, just from thinking of her touching him. _Foot races. Pork pies. Lovely pork pies. I wonder what Frodo's doing?_

Cool air on his cock, a rustle of clothing. Stars, she had pulled his breeches down! He moaned softly, unable to hold it in, and her grip tightened on him, nearly to the point of pain--but true pain never felt this good. Then the wet velvet of her mouth enclosed him and he inhaled sharply. Her mouth was like liquid fire. Up, down, around, her grasp never easing at the base. He hitched his hips helplessly; pulse beating a wild drumbeat in his ears. Then she pulled away, and blew gently on his engorged aching cock. It tickled. He suppressed the urge to grab her head and push it back down to his groin and simply lay there panting. With one hand, she snagged the flask and tipped it up to her lips.

"Mmmm," she said. Then she offered to him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Would you like some? Your face is rather red."

"I am going to die."

She winked at him and tipped the flask again, then without pausing to swallow, bent and again engulfed him in her wine-cool mouth.

The wine tingled and buzzed on the sensitive skin, drizzling in cool streams down his shaft and groin. She touched his sac lightly, making him shiver and pressed a finger behind. Oh, oh, oh... He groaned and her busy tongue flicked across the head...and then she finally relaxed her grip, moving her loose fist up and down the shaft below her mouth.

Oh! Oh! OH! His cock exploded, the pleasure bowing his spine and drawing incoherent moans from his mouth. _I am going to die,_ he thought in some amazement. He had frigged alone in bed many times, but it had never felt like this, never. He struggled to catch his breath.

When his breathing at last slowed a little, and the stars in his vision had stopped zooming about like over-wrought comets, she was snuggled into the curve of his arm. He noted with faint interest the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Still there. That was somewhat surprising. She stroked his chest idly, running her fingers along the curve of his collarbone and down his ribcage.

"Handsome Merry," she murmured. "Isn't it nice?"

Oh, he felt marvelous, wonderful, ecstatic... She was wonderful and marvelous. He cleared his throat. "I- I love you."

She giggled into his shoulder. "No, you don't, you gorgeous young hobbit. You love what we've been doing. I don't blame you, I feel a little giddy myself." She hugged him tightly, and murmured, "I wish we could lie out here all night."

"Can't we?" he blurted. He never wanted to leave, and that other part of him twitched weakly, as if in agreement.

She gave her bodice a half-hearted tug, and then sat up and looked around pensively. "Well- Oh dear. Bother. I can make out the smoke from the bonfire."

At that, he jerked up in alarm, tugging hastily at his breeches. The embarrassment that had not troubled him earlier came flooding back with a vengeance. "You can? They must have built it back up again then, because it had burned down when I left. It must be late."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Or rather, early."

Mmm... Her hair smelt lovely, like flowers and the night and him. His next words dragged reluctantly from his mouth. "Then they'll be getting everyone up soon, to go back."

"Yes." She was already retying her bodice, snugging it back up over her delightful breasts and straightening her skirt. He watched her with a pang, and then glanced down at himself. Why, just button his breeches and he would be set. What luck to be a lad! "I suppose we must go back before they come looking for us."

She flashed him a bright smile. "For now, we must."

The words sent a thrill through him. She stood up and flounced out her skirts. He picked up the flask and the blanket. "How do I look?" she asked, picking up his forgotten branches of plum and hawthorn.

He considered her for a moment, and then grinned devilishly. "Like the Queen of May."

~~ _finis_ ~~


End file.
